


Cold Comfort For Change

by kalymnos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Preseries, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 04:15:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalymnos/pseuds/kalymnos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: A young Sam is staying with Bobby while Dean and John take care of a tough hunt a few states away. Sam pines for Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Comfort For Change

It'd been a week since Bobby stood on the porch, watching as John swung the Impala out and backed down the drive with Dean bouncing in the front seat, just gone fifteen and impatient with excitement at finally being allowed to hunt. One week since he'd turned to Sam to suggest they head out, get in some _real_ shooting practice, maybe even go to the arcade in town for a slice of pizza afterwards, only for Sam to spin on his heel and disappear back inside the house before Bobby could open his pie hole.

He'd slammed the door right in Bobby's face, too, the little cretin, and refused to speak more than two words from that point on. 

"You wanna head out into the yard with me this morning?" Bobby asked during breakfast on the third day, chugging at a burnt coffee. He'd just bought a new machine from in town, couldn't quite get the damn thing working right. 

Sam pushed his runny eggs around the plate absently, staring out the kitchen window. He'd barely eaten two spoonfuls, and Bobby'd spent a good while and half a carton of eggs cooking them exactly to Dean's instructions. _Don't cook 'em too long, okay, he hates when they go hard. And you got any hot sauce? Just a bit, though, he'll burn his tongue_ , had been muttered sideways from Dean's mouth yesterday before he'd hopped into the car next to his daddy.

"Could really use your help on a banged-up four-by-four."

After a few seconds, Sam looked up at him with unfocused eyes. Wherever his mind was, it was miles and miles from here. He blinked, wide-eyed and disoriented, a far cry from the sharp, cynical kid Bobby remembered from their last visit; nowhere near the sullen, stubborn teenager John had warned him to expect as he threw Sam's duffel from the trunk."Oh, uh. No thanks, Bobby," Sam finally said, voice cracked-dry and a little confused. 

Bobby sighed and tipped his coffee down the drain. He had a shit-ton of work to do.

Each day, Sam sat out on the porch rocker from waking til sleep, even though it was December and that meant pouring hot water on the joints just to get the old thing swinging again each morning, which Sam did with a kind of single-minded determination. He'd wrap himself in a hundred layers of clothes and a ratted blanket Bobby'd scrounged up, and for hours without break he'd stare out over the yard. Mealtimes weren't a blip on his radar, and Bobby would have to shout more than once to get the kid inside for a few mouthfuls of pasta. 

Underneath it all, Bobby swore he was wearing the same faded Metallica shirt he'd pulled from the depths of his bag the first night, which might have meant the kid probably wasn't showering. And Bobby – look, he'd cook the kid a decent meal, alright, but he just didn't _do_ bath times. 

Even Rumsfeld, who Sam normally adored, couldn't bring him out of his stupor. He'd whine at Sam's feet, high-pitched and agitated with an edge of panic, but it was like Sam couldn't even hear him. Once, Bobby could've sworn he heard a similar-sounding noise come outta Sam's throat, but it could also just have been the wind.

Bobby tried. His cheer-up-kids arsenal was stocked kind of low, but he knew something was up, something that went beyond your standard hunter's kid abandonment crap; it was familiar but he couldn't quite place it. 

So they went into town for dinner one night. Sam asked for a salad sub, then changed his order at the last minute to a double bacon burger with a side mountain of fries. He handed Sam the TV remote at night, and had to sit through hours of D-grade horror flicks so insultingly inaccurate Bobby eventually left the room on principle. They played Scrabble with a dusty archaic set Bobby dredged up from somewhere, Sam throwing down words like Ulrich and Zeppelin with a challenging look, and Bobby happily indulging him. But nothing worked, not the old encyclopedia set he'd bought at Mosey's garage sale, 'cause he knew the kid liked learning, not the knock-knock jokes he'd pulled out in desperation, though those probably wouldn't have worked even if Sam was busy having kittens of joy.

It wasn’t like tearing into the kid would help, Bobby thought, watching Sam stretch that stinking t-shirt up over his nose, lying on the couch with his knees pulled up under his chin. He wasn't being annoying, or difficult, or moody even. Just – dazed, and lost and, alright, yeah, _sad_ , too. 

Which was exactly when Bobby figured it out.

 

"Alright, John, just hold on. I'll go get him."

John was surprised and kind of impatient when Bobby called the next morning, _if he's alright, why are you callin' Bobby_ , but Bobby was insistent. Damn Winchesters needed every bit of help he could shove down their throats. A whole week watching a poor eleven-year-old make himself sick missing his daddy, and that daddy hadn't once thought to call. Didn't seem right. Mighta surprised Bobby a little, what with how Sam and John seemed to lock horns more times than not, but he didn't exactly have a _Brady Bunch_ relationship with his own father, so he could be excused for not being able to tell the difference between his kind of fucked-up and theirs. 

"Sam?" Bobby said, sticking his head outside the front door, where Sam was sitting – keeping watch, Bobby amended – on the porch in silent wait. "Telephone for you."

Like a fire had been lit under the kid's butt, Sam sprang out from under the blanket, eyes alight, and rushed past him into the kitchen. He snatched the phone from the bench and said breathlessly, "Dean?"

Bobby closed his eyes in defeat. Jesus Christ, what a damn moron he was. Same co-dependency, wrong friggin' Winchester.

"Oh," said Sam, shoulders slumping. He cast a quick, self-conscious look Bobby's way, and Bobby found the grace to step back into the hallway, still hovering in earshot. Sam cleared his throat, saying, "Yessir, everything's fine here. No, no trouble. How's the hunt going? Uh huh." Sam broke off, mumbled something Bobby couldn't hear, and then again, brighter, "Yessir, I will. Every day. I'll take Rumsfeld with me. Okay. I'll see you."

In the silence that followed, Bobby took his cue to edge back around the corner, fearful his interference had done more harm than good, but it became clear Sam hadn't yet hung up. He was extending the phone cord in his hand, shuffling around the kitchen to curl up in the wooden chair by the window.

And then: "Hi Dean," Sam breathed, sunlight golden on his face. A soft smile played at the corners of his lips and his voice rose, filled with color and delight. "No, jerk, of course I don't miss you."

Bobby once knew a man who'd've called Sam an idjit in that moment. Maybe someday he'd called the pair of 'em that, but today Bobby was inclined to think little brothers missing their big brothers was a thing quite alright in the world. 

Jesus Christ, what a sap he was. Shaking his head, he set about the kitchen, pulling pans and bowls from the clattered sink, feeling pretty sure the kid would eat every mouthful of his precious eggs this time. 

"No, dude – don't boss me around, Dean. Of course I'm bein' good for Bobby."

Runny, a touch of hot sauce. Yeah yeah, Dean, alright.

"What? No. Shut up. _Shut up_. I don't miss you. I don't!"

Bobby turned on the coffee machine, eyeing the thing warily. Maybe today he'd get it right, he thought, as Sam burst out laughing, a loud and foreign and pretty darn sweet sound. 

"You _never_ listen to me, you friggin' jerk…"


End file.
